A Needed Confrontation
by ingodtisswetrust
Summary: Lestrade discovers Mycroft's secret, despite his best attempts to keep it hidden.


"Mycroft."

At the sound of Gregory's voice, my eyes fling open. They take a moment to adjust to the light streaming through the window, but when they do, I see him. He's standing hunched in the doorway, face red, holding a small prescription bottle that was previously hidden behind the towels in our linen closet.

"What is this?" he demands, giving the bottle a shake.

I groan, my head falling back onto my pillow. "Gregory, love, I'm quite sure of your abilities to read. Have you tried looking at the label? I'm positive that would answer your question." His eyes narrow as he bites down a retort. Other than that, he makes no move. Gregory continued to wait for an answer, an actual answer. "If you must know," I begin with a sigh, "It's a prescription for Amoxil. From a doctor, mind you."

"Yes, I know that," he says with a nod. "But you're one of the healthiest people I know. I don't think I've ever even seen you sick in the years I've known you. So unless you're hiding some infection from me, you're taking these for another reason."

I could lie, oh so easily. But another look into Gregory's eyes show that he knows. He's either called John or just googled it, but he knows. I can feel myself starting to sweat under his scrutiny. I feel panicked, trapped. I don't want to hear what he has to say; I don't want to hear the concern and pity fill his voice. But he's still waiting for a response, and I have no choice but to tell the truth.

"They aren't for an infection, no. I take them to induce vomiting after eating." He takes a step back, shocked. He didn't expect me to be so forthcoming and honest. Gregory takes a few moments to think, still staring at me. As he opens his mouth to speak, I raise a hand to silence him. "Stop. It's the weekend, I'm tired, and I have no interest in having this discussion with you. Do me a favour and put those back where you found them."

"Are you _insane_?" Gregory yells, causing me to wince. "You honestly think you can tell me that and then expect me just to drop it? To give you back your pills? " He stops to calm himself, running a hand over his face. "Look, I cannot and will not sit here and let you continue to poison yourself. I love you to much to do that."

I roll my eyes at that. It's the same line everyone uses, and it becomes more obnoxious every time I hear it. Whether it comes from Sherlock, or Anthea, or my darling Gregory, it leaves me completely unfazed.

"You're overreacting. I only take them once in a whil-"

"Because you only _eat_ once in a while." Gregory interjects. "Jesus, Mycroft, you can not honestly act like this isn't a problem. Bulimia is a serious issue…"

My head flies off my pillow, allowing me to shoot Gregory a glare. Subdued by my residual sleepiness, it lacks it's full strength, but it's enough for him to trail off and take a step back. "I am not bulimic." I begin robotically. "Nor am I anorexic, for that matter. I do not have any sort of eating disorder. What I choose to put into my body is none of your concern." Too angry now to sleep, I push the blankets off me and step out of bed. I pull on the silk dressing gown that lay at the foot of the bed and begin to walk towards the door.

Gregory refuses to budge. "Mycroft, please. Let me help you." He looks up at me, eyes dampening. I'm not sure what I would do if he were to cry. I fear my resolve would be unable to tolerate it, that I'd cave, that I'd accept the ridiculous idea that I have an eating disorder. I attempt to push past him, but he still doesn't move. "Mycroft, baby" I scoff at his term of endearment. "I know you don't want to admit this. But please, trust me when I say that I will help you. We can get through this together, but only if you admit to me and yourself that this is a problem."

A solitary tear rolls down his cheek as he speaks. As it rolls down, I can feel myself breaking. Damn Gregory. In this instant, I hate him and need him more than I ever had before.

"Gregory…" I begin softly, my voice quivering. He gently takes my hand, rubbing the back of it soothingly to keep me at peace. I take a deep breath before speaking again. "Gregory, I… I don't know what to do." The end is barely distinguishable through the sob I release. He pulls me into his arms, letting the prescription bottle drop onto the carpet. Gregory holds me as I cry harder, years worth of denial leaving me. I cling onto him more as I fill with fear and despair. After a few moments, I sniffle and take a step back. He keeps his hands on my waist; his face is full of concern and worry, but he offers a small smile when he sees me regaining my composure.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod. "Good. I'm going to dispose of those pills. After that, we'll have some tea and talk about this, alright?" I nod again. He flashes me a more brilliant smile, bends to pick up the bottle, and quickly leaves the room. I linger for a few seconds, removing the last traces of sleep and tears from my face before shuffling from the bedroom to the living room. I hear the toilet flush; Gregory comes out of the bathroom and smiles at me again, the pills nowhere to be seen. I'm both angry to see them wasted, but relieved he did more than just throw them in the bin.

Gregory walks through the flat and into the kitchen, filling a kettle with water before placing on the stove. I watch him lazily from the couch as he makes our tea. I'm trying to keep my tears at bay and prepare myself for the coming conversation. So far, Gregory's intervention is going better than other attempts. For that, I'm glad.

"Mycroft?" I blink and he's in front me, extending a steaming cup of tea to me. I nod in thanks and take it from me, immediately taking a sip. It's my favourite: earl grey with two sugars. I take another sip to calm my nerves before glancing over at Gregory. He's sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching me warily, his tea untouched. I can tell he's waiting for me to speak and begin this discussion.

With another sip of tea for courage, I begin. "I was overweight as a child. Fat, even. When I reached year 12, I got sick of the shrewd names yelled at me in the hallway, the disparaging looks from my parents, and most of all the snide remarks from Sherlock." I spit his name out, clutching my cup more. "I know it isn't fair to blame any one else for my problem, but Sherlock certainly did help. He was always unfairly skinny and felt no remorse in making me aware of that fact." I stop to glance at Gregory; he nods to show that he's paying attention.

"I'm sorry he did that to you," He remarks softly. "He should have known better."

"He was a child, he didn't know the consequences of his actions. Nor did I, until, late one evening, I was searching through our medicine cabinet, looking for _anything_ that would make me feel better."

I still remember that night vividly. The evening had begun with a sharp jab from Sherlock. I refused to listen to him any longer. Storming down into the cellar, I broke into and subsequently enjoyed a rather large, and expensive, bottle of win. Blinded with rage at both myself and my brother, I ran back up through the house, pausing to smash a photograph of my brother that was hanging by the staircase. I made my way to the medicine cabinet and flung it open with enough force to pop one of the hinges. I didn't care. I pawed through the various bottles and boxes we had. Grabbing a random prescription bottle, I downed four of the light blue tablets. I stood there shaking, waiting for some effect to take place. But nothing happened. Enraged, I swallowed two more. As I was forcing the second down, I began to feel sick. I stumbled drunkenly into the nearest bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before I began to vomit violently. And there it was, the relief I so desperately sought. Though undignified and disgusting, I felt absolved of my weight issue. I had stumbled upon a solution.

"But baby," Gregory cuts in. I had almost forgotten he was there, so lost in my memories. "You must have known that it wasn't good for you."

"I admit, I was too blinded by my loss of weight to notice or care. I barely ate; when I did, I immediately took something to purge myself. Within a year I weighed less than even my brother. I was too afraid of the weight coming back to stop." By now, I'm crying again. Under Gregory's scrutiny I feel weak and pathetic. I hear the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric as he moves closer to me on the couch. His strong arms wrap around me and, for the second time today, I'm crying into his shoulder.

He says nothing of importance, offering a few soft murmurs of reassurance every now and again. A rubs my back and presses a kiss to the top of my head before speaking.

"Do you want to stop?"

I pull back, appalled. How could he even ask that, how could he not know my answer? "Dear god, of course I do!" I exclaim. "I hate it, Gregory, I really do. It makes me feel so… worthless. But I cannot gain weight again. I'll go insane Gregory, I can't live like that again." With that, I'm crying again and harder.

"Shh. Take a deep breath." I rest my head against his chest again, gulping in air. "I just wanted to make sure. There are much healthier ways of eating, Mycroft. You might gain a little weight, but you'll be healthy. And that's more important isn't it?" You don't need to do all these things just to beat your brother and be skinny. No matter how much you weigh, baby, I'll always love you. I need you too believe that. He pauses before continuing. "And if Sherlock _ever_ taunts you again, he's guaranteed another drugs bust."

I chuckle into his shirt at his display of chivalry. Gregory leans me back, using a gentle touch to wipe away the rest of my tears. He kisses me softly before uttering those three words I love to hear him say. "I love you." I settle back into his arms before giving him a reply. "I love you too Gregory. More than you'll ever know."


End file.
